A Spy's Essential Guidebook to Life
by pingnova
Summary: A series of unconnected one- or two-shots on the life of a spy in Alex Rider's universe. Featuring all your favorite characters in a variety of fun -ahem*dangerous*- situations. New: Every Spy Needs Formalwear
1. Hide in Plain Sight

**A Spy's Essential Guidebook to Life**

**By WarriorLoverInc**

_**Hide in Plain Sight**_

Alex Rider hated the circus.

He remembered being a boy, all those years ago, when the big-top had fascinated him. The ladies would dance, the elephants would parade, bunnies would appear out of thin air, the lions would roar, the tigers would jump through flaming hoops, and the clowns would perform their merry antics.

Jack Starbright would usually accompany him to one of these showings, but on one rare occasion, his uncle Ian had been present long enough to see him through the show. The entire time Ian's smile had been weak, only nodding when an eight year old Alex enthusiastically pointed something out. The boy's hands had been sticky with sweets then, his face shining with delight, never noticing his uncle's discomfort in his childish glee.

Halfway through the show, Ian had received a call on his Bluetooth. Alex didn't know it then, but he was there for more than just a night out with his nephew.

"Alex?" Ian stood, addressing his charge above the roar of the crowd.

The small boy looked up at him, eyes shining. "Uncle Ian! The horsies can carry the ladies!" he exclaimed.

Ian felt a twinge of guilt in his gut. He loved his brother's son almost as his own, he really didn't want to work now and leave the little boy all by himself in a place as confusing as the circus. But his commanding officer had been adamant: the boy was only cover, no he could not bring accomplices, Alex could take care of himself, work before "play."

The man obviously had no family.

Ian plastered a painfully strained smile on his face, for his sake as much as Alex's. "I'm going to the bathroom, will you be okay?"

His charge nodded. "This is fun, Ian! I'm glad you got time off work to take me."

_I wish,_ his uncle thought, remorse in his eyes.

"I'll be right back, okay?"

But Alex had already gone back to watching the circus. Clowns emerged from backstage, wearing ridiculously baggy clothing, huge, squeaking shoes, rainbow wigs, large, red noses, and enough paint to satisfy even Van Gogh.

Ian slipped between the crowds until he reached the main lobby of the building hosting the circus. It was empty now, everyone was inside the stadium for the show, but as Ian arrived, so did two men with shifty eyes.

The first came through the main doors. He was large and filled his XXL leather coat nicely with nothing but muscle. Two small, beady eyes watched Ian intently as he entered.

The second man was less the body builder, but made up for his lack of muscle in the lean power lurking beneath the surface of his tanned skin. He wore nothing but a pair of khaki pants and a black T-shirt, his appearance of sloppiness completed by the shaggy black hair hanging around his face.

They were MI6, like Ian, but they were both under surveillance for suspected treachery. Each of them had returned recently from foreign intelligence gathering and were instructed to rendezvous with a report of their success or failure.

They eyed each other warily until Ian cleared his throat loudly and spoke up.

"Well, gentlemen," he held out his hands to each of them, "your mission reports."

The disheveled younger man glared at him. "ID?"

Ian smiled. _Good man_. "Of course, so silly of me." He fished around in his pockets, coming up with ticket stubs and a few scraps of paper Alex had scribbled on before he finally found his MI6 ID. He displayed it quickly before stashing it away.

"Now, the papers," Ian gestured with his hands for the men to hand them over, decidedly all business now that formalities were over.

The younger man pulled a manila folder from under his shirt. No better place to keep valuables then on yourself, Ian guessed.

The muscle-man probed in one of the many gigantic pockets sewn into the leather jacket as Ian received the other's mission report. He shook the young man's hand.

"Good job, soldier," he said, grinning along with the said man, "It's great to work with skill like you."

The man smirked. "Likewise."

Suddenly, he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed into the back of his head. The shaggy man's eyes widened in surprise, and his body tensed in anticipation.

"Don't move," came the gravelly voice of the large man, "I've seen you British spies in action. Don't try anything or I'll shoot."

Ian raised his hands in silent surrender. The younger man glanced quickly at him for instruction, and raised his arms too in response to Ian's nod.

"Now," the gun-toting man's giant hands probed through Ian's pockets. He emptied his coat of his cell phone, wallet, and recently received folder. This he grasped and tucked into the depths of his leather jacket.

Ian himself wasn't as worried as he supposed he should've been. When someone's aiming a loaded pistol at your head, one tended to feel anxious. But there were a few things Ian had going for him that the revealed traitor did not. Ian had the other agent (who was hopefully on his side), and he was their senior in experience and skill. Not to mention he was an official pencil-pusher and MI6 couldn't afford to lose people like him.

A cheer rose for the audience in the distance, oblivious to the situation in the lobby.

After the large man seemed satisfied with his findings, he lashed out at Ian, taking the side of his head with a glancing blow from the butt of his gun, leaving him stunned. Ian's vision brightened and he could've sworn he saw stars.

With a shout, the younger operative threw himself to the floor as a bullet whistled past his shoulder. The cannon from the circus exploded in the same second, masking the shout of the gun.

As Ian recovered, he snapped into action. The traitor was pushing through the front doors towards a car idling on the curb. "Shaggy," as Ian had decided to call the younger agent, pushed himself off the floor and rushed over to Ian.

"Are you okay?" he asked, slightly panicked.

Ian nodded tersely. "Yes, but don't worry about me, the files!"

Shaggy whirled around. The engine of Traitor's car roared like a wild beast and shot off into the evening.

"C'mon!" Ian shouted, and he burst through the front doors, Shaggy at his heels. Revving the engine of his sleek vehicle, he motioned the younger agent into his car, and zoomed off in hot pursuit.

…

Sometime later, the circus closed to boisterous applause and emptied out in minutes. A young Alex Rider stood in the main lobby, clutching a stuffed lion to his chest. He was lost, confused. Ian had gone to the bathroom hours ago, but now Alex was alone. Ian had left him behind.

"Uncle Ian," he called into the gigantic, empty reception area. Voice bordering on tears, he called desperately, "Uncle Ian?"

A shadow fell across Alex's small form. The child looked up, blinking away tears.

Jack Starbright gazed sadly down at her young charge. "Alex? Honey? Are you okay?"

The small boy sniffed. "Jack. Where's Uncle Ian?"

She smiled sadly. "I don't know sweetheart, but let's get you home and in bed." Reaching out, Jack gently took Alex's hand.

Jack never forgave Ian for that night. What kind of man left his child in a circus? Was his job more important than family? What business call was so important that he sped off in the midst of their alone time together?

Ian had grimaced and stood admirably strong through her heated tirade. Alex, wrapped in his warm covers upstairs, had thrown a pillow over his ears in a vain attempt to block out her yelling. He fell asleep slowly that night, wondering why his beloved uncle had left him scared and alone.

…

Presently, Alex brained a clown with a fake hammer. The crowd roared with laughter, and Alex completed the show by tripping over his own feet. Plastering a goofy grin on his face, he pulled an oversized pistol from his belt, and seemingly aimed it randomly at the crowd, shooting confetti into the spectators with a _bang!_

In reality, he had aimed carefully, instinctively. His target hadn't been random; he had directed a very real bullet through the crowd and between the eyes of a certain individual. They would be frozen in place, killed so fast that their muscles would have seized up in such a fashion that they'd appear alive until someone looked too closely.

His guise of a clown was just that, a guise. No-one would suspect a child assassin, _especially_ if they were a clown. It had been his own choice of disguise. If he had learned anything in his short lifetime, one of the most important lessons had to be a simple one:

"Hide in plain sight."

Because no-one will look twice for someone who's seeking attention, they study those who hide in shadow, not rainbow wigs and bright red noses.

Alex really did loathe the circus. It held too many bad memories.

**. . . .**

**Authors Note:** Well, I intend to fill this "guidebook" with lots of unconnected one- or two-shots on the life of a spy in Alex Rider's Universe. It shall feature 'shots including Alex, Ian, John, and Helen Rider. Jack Starbright, Yassen Gregorovich, Ben Daniels, etc., etc. Blah, blah, blah.

So, enjoy!


	2. Every Agent Needs Formalwear

**A Spy's Essential Guidebook to Life **

**By WarriorLoverInc **

**_Every Agent Needs Formalwear_**

"I need £600."

Alex choked on his rice puff cereal. "What?"

"I told you," Jack repeated with a roll of her eyes, "I need six – hundred – pounds."

"You don't need to talk to me like I'm hard of hearing…" Alex muttered huffily.

It was six in the morning, an odd time for either of them to be awake, and neither of them was exactly wide-eyed or bushy-tailed. Jack rubbed sleep from her eyes, smearing mascara, and Alex squinted his dim orbs, the light lengthening the heavy shadows hanging below.

The red-head squinted back. "Don't look at me like that, Rider."

"I just had to make sure you were real." He massaged his forehead wearily. "Isn't this why you put me in charge of money? So you didn't have the chance to blow it all? What in the world would you need £600 for anyway?"

Jack took a seat at the end of the kitchen table, placing her purse on the tabletop with a restrained finesse. "I'm going on a date tomorrow."

The tension in the room visibly thickened with her statement. Alex's cereal forgotten, his intense gaze drilled holes through his pseudo-family's eyes. Jack drew her shoulders up, sensing a fight.

"No."

"You can't stop me, Alex. I'll date if I want."

"You do remember what happened the last time—"

"I remember!" she burst out, shielding her eyes with shaking hands. It wasn't clear if the emotion was irritation or sorrow. "Now give me the debit card!"

Hesitantly, Alex pulled the "family" debit card from a kitchen drawer without getting up. Jack accepted the card without a word, composed for the moment, and made motions to leave. Before she could, Alex rose abruptly and grasped her wrist.

"You know I just worry about you, Jack."

A somber smile stole her lips as she gently slipped from his calloused hand. "I know." She paused, facing him to clasp his hand instead. "But it should be I that am worried for you, Alex."

He hated to see her so pained, so motherly. Jack had originally come to Britain to attend law school, and here she had given up her dreams to care for Alex. They were more than friends, less than lovers: they were siblings. It was natural of her to turn his statements around; she was the elder of the two after all. But Alex was no longer a naïve young boy. He didn't fall for innocent façades, he didn't live in the moment, and he couldn't relax. He was Alex Rider, boy spy, trained mentally and physically practically from birth for the job he did now. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't live under and obey the jurisdiction of anyone anymore. His nature had changed, and not exactly for the best. Jack on the other hand was the same sisterly ginger as ever. After what happened with her last "boyfriend" there was no way he was letting her see another man ever again.

But how was he supposed to say no when he almost made her cry?

Alex dumped his dishes in the sink moments after Jack departed. He nearly jumped out of his skin as the telephone rang. With a muttered curse he grabbed the device from its wall-mounted cradle and answered with the usual: "Rider's."

"Alex!" exclaimed a familiar voice joyfully, distorted by the tinny phone quality. When the voice received no response for several seconds, it queried: "Hello?"

"Do I know you?" Alex replied.

"Pssh! Have you forgotten me already, Rider?" the voice teased. "It's Ben." More silence. "Ben Daniels."

"Ben?" Alex exclaimed. "I haven't seen you in weeks—no—months. Why call now?"

"Actually I—"

"Wait," Alex interrupted, suspicion coloring his tone, "how'd you get my phone number. I never gave it to you."

"All I did was—"

"Let me guess," Alex interrupted the poor man again, "the Bank asked you to call me."

Now it was Ben's turn to be silent. "… You're a smart kid, Alex." He sounded remorseful.

"Thanks for the compliment." Alex deadpanned.

"I'm outside your house. You'd better come with me."

"I never gave—"

"The Bank, Alex, the Bank." was Ben's sighed reply.

"… Of course." And then Alex hung up, house keys in hand, scribbled note on the counter, shoes laced and telephone replaced in its cradle.

…

Alex glared up at the sign. It mocked him and he sneered back. No way. No way in hell was he going in there.

_Gentlemen's Tux and Formal Wear_ it read.

"What the _hell_ are we doing here, Ben?"

The older man exited the driver's side, tucking a pair of sunglasses inside his coat. Nonplussed by Alex's language, he gave the smaller boy a curious gaze. With a sigh he replied: "I don't really know, actually. I was given one of the Bank's spending cards and told to buy you some formal clothing."

"Well, I'm not going in there." Alex stated defiantly. To illustrate his point he plopped down heavily on the snowy curb outside the store. "I know that they've always wanted me to be their little obedient James Bond but a _tuxedo_ is the last straw!"

"Alex…" Ben warned.

"You're not the boss of me, Ben."

Ben smirked. "You sound just like a child."

"Yeah," Alex retorted moodily, "well you sound like a certain bastard be both know."

Pursed lips were Ben's only reply. Checking that he locked the car, he walked past Alex to the stairs. The charcoal-haired agent hadn't known Alex for long, but the recently-turned-fifteen year old had earned a special place in his heart. When they'd first met in Wales, Ben hadn't known what to think of the diminutive blonde abruptly tagged onto his unit. The soldier found the situation suspect enough, but didn't dare to voice his opinions. He hadn't joined the military to ask questions, so Ben remained silently in the background. Since Alex had only been with them for a week and remained absent for more than a month, Ben had assumed that they'd never meet again and didn't dwell on his misgivings.

But then the incident in Bangkok…

Ben paused at the door, shooting Alex a curious look. Why was the boy even here? He was barely old enough to drive, let alone stray ankle-deep in the Bank's business.

Ben was drawn back to the present when he noticed Alex shiver. It had begun to snow again, a delicate powder accumulating on Alex's shoulders. His butt was still resolutely glued to the curb, but he apparently had no sense of self-preservation. He wore no coat.

With a long suffering sigh, Ben stalked back to the stubborn kid, hauled him over his shoulder (to much protest), and with a resolute face marched into the shop.

"Put me down, Ben!" Alex demanded, pounding his fists on the coal-haired man's back.

"Alex, for Pete's sake!" exclaimed an exasperated Ben. But Alex got his wish when he dropped to the ground.

As he stood and brushed himself off indignantly. "I could've walked in here myself."

Ben made a noise of disbelief. "It looked like you'd been frozen to the curb, really. Be glad that I brought you in when I did, you could've caught your death out there!"

"Well I didn't, did I?" was the snarky reply.

"You know, you're just an immature _brat!_"

"And you're a government _bastard!_"

"_Ahem!_" A loud cough interrupted their verbal warfare. Faces inches from touching, they glared at the humorless elderly man behind the counter.

"WHAT?" They snarled in unison.

Unfazed by their scare tactics, the bespectacled man simply stated, "If you wish to participate in such a rude disturbance please do so outside my shop."

Ben combed an agitated hand through his hair. "We'll continue this conversation later, Alex." He reached into his back pocket and handed the shopkeeper a card. The man took it somberly and glanced at its contents.

"Ah, I see you already have the measurements." He nodded approvingly, waving for the two spies to follow him into a room to the left. It was small. Body-length mirrors decorated the walls and a short wooden box stood in the middle. Shoved in the corner was a table that seemed to be having trouble containing all the pins, cloth, and measuring tools spilling off its surface.

The man cleared his throat and gestured for Alex to step onto the box. As the boy grudgingly complied, the man introduced himself. "My name is Bartosz. I will be serving you young gentlemen today." He cast an appraising glance over Alex as he stood awkwardly on the box. "I assume the young Rider is here for a tuxedo."

Ben nodded, seating himself on a nearby bench. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the comfort of the plush fabric before adding, "The best you have."

Bartosz grinned knowingly. "I'd recommend a Brioni. Judging by the similar appearance he has to his father, he'd fill the one I have in the back room nicely."

Alex started in surprise. "Wait? What? You knew my father? John Rider?"

The elderly man smiled warmly. "There is some truth to spy fiction. Every agent needs first-rate formalwear."

As Bartosz limped off to a back room Alex turned to a smug looking Ben quizzically.

"He's been outfitting for MI5 and MI6 for years," he explained. "Remembers every one of us. He doesn't have any security clearance, though, so careful about what you say." Here he shot a pointed look at Alex, clearly conveying _no funny business_.

Said shopkeeper re-entered the room. Muttering to himself something about matching thread, he said offhandedly to the wary boy in the room, "Take off your clothes."

"_What?_" Alex's jaw dropped.

Bartosz gave him a stern glare. "How else do you propose we fit you with a tuxedo?"

"Alex, he's not a perv, just your outer clothes." Ben sighed long-sufferingly.

The blonde shot him a glower. "I know that," he snapped irritably, "but do you see what he'd have me wear?"

Ben raised a coal eyebrow at the suit Bartosz handled with such care. It was a designer tuxedo, a Brioni, just as Bartosz had recommended. A deep black dinner jacket hugged a clean-pressed pure white button-up undershirt. Draped underneath was a pair of crisp trousers made of the same expensive fabric as the jacket. "You're right," Ben deliberated with faux contemplation. "That tuxedo looks downright evil. I'm sure the moment you put it on it'll strangle you with its lapels."

"Just get it over with." Alex sighed, hesitance defeated by Ben's laughter.

After stripping his clothes down to his underwear and undershirt he waited patiently as Bartosz helped him get into the suit. The size the shopkeeper had chosen from storage was almost perfect, and with a few tweaks, knots, and trims Alex felt the tuxedo embrace him like a straightjacket.

"I also have a pair of shoes that I feel would compliment your dinner suit beautifully, sir." Bartosz threw out hesitantly, watching the newly fit spy fidget with the collar of his Brioni. Alex looked over his new getup in the mirror before him. Unwittingly he was reminded of his parents' wedding photos. His father _had_ worn a Brioni and as son compared to father, Alex seemed little more than a younger version of John.

But Alex also remembered the last time he'd worn a tuxedo seriously. It had been at his uncle's funeral. He remembered the suit had been suffocating him, threatening to squeeze those tears out of his eyes that he'd been so resolutely containing since the doorbell had first rang so early in the morning.

"I… I'd like that." Alex admitted, voice cracking. The shopkeeper gazed at him inquisitively but wisely kept his mouth shut.

As Bartosz exited again to search for the shoes, Ben and Alex lingered in silence. Alex waited, whether it be for Ben to ask him why his eyes were turning glassy or for Bartosz to return with the shoes, he couldn't say.

When Ben finally broke the silence, tearing his intense gaze from the ceiling, he caught Alex off guard with a carefully casual question. "So… why aren't you in school, Alex?"

The corners of Alex's lips drew down and his eyes flickered from his reflection in the mirrors at his fellow spy's offhand question. "_Why?_" he repeated as if he didn't even know the answer. Ben brows furrowed at his reply. "I just can't anymore."

"Why can't you?" Ben queried for clarification. "You'd be an eleventh year now, right?"

Alex nodded absentmindedly. "I guess." He adjusted his tuxedo's lapels again, tactfully avoiding the first part of Ben's question. Any other comment that may have been made was abruptly cut off by Bartosz's return to the fitting room. He practically beamed as he laid a pair of shiny black lace-up shoes at Alex's feet.

"I don't get many customers your age, Mr. Rider." He explained. "I never thought I'd have the chance to use these."

_I have to admit_, Alex thought as he slipped into the pair of sleek shoes, _I do make a pretty picture_. For the moment he'd managed to shove any emotional memories to the back of his mind and banish the cursed watering of his eyes into oblivion. The rest of the trip went by in a blur. He agreed on the tuxedo and shoes and the next thing he knew Ben was sliding a card across the front counter, tuxedo, shoes, cufflinks, and tie packaged in a stiff white box.

"Hold this," Ben shoved the box into his grip, "it's your thousand pound monkey-suit, not mine."

…

"BEN! Watch the road!" Alex yelled for probably for the fourth time. Said man swore loudly as he swerved back into the left lane, narrowly missing a head-on collision with a semi. They'd departed from Gentlemen's Tux and Formal Wear not that long ago, and already Ben swore he'd seen his life flash before his eyes at least twice.

"You're not a very good driver." Alex ground out between clenched teeth. If he gripped the seat any tighter Ben could realistically see the boy's nails tearing right through the reinforced fabric.

"I admit I'm not giving you a very good demonstration of my skills…" he confessed. The reason Ben was having such a hard time paying attention to his driving was Alex. The boy's adamant denial to answer any question straight was really driving him up a wall. _And off the road_, he thought darkly as he adjusted his course yet again.

So far he'd learned that Alex was not currently attending school, was not bothered by the fact that he was being escorted to the covert headquarters of Military Intelligence Six, and had not been sleeping well. The latter was more of a guess on his part. Evidence was clear in his dull, drooping eyes with dark bags under them, the way he slouched in the seat (when he wasn't screaming for Ben to "Pull left! Pull the bloody hell to the left!"), and when he had finally deigned to answer a question directly it had been that he usually stayed up late and woke up early.

Although he knew he had no business prying, Ben felt an overwhelming desire to demand Alex tell him what the hell was up and why he refused to say anything about it. Something was obviously gnawing on the boy and it couldn't just be his bad driving. He was chewing his nails to stubs and immersed deep in thought, occasionally rubbing his eyes awake.

Before he could strike up conversation again the stone monolith of the Royal & General Bank loomed over his tiny car. The coal-haired man resigned himself to never receiving an answer to his questions as he pulled up along the curb. Ben glanced at the boy in question, surprised to find him glaring holes through the Bank's front doors. His vehemence had startled him at first, but Ben was slowly becoming accustomed to the air of darkness that seemed to cling to the blonde like a bad smell.

As Alex unbuckled and opened the door, tuxedo box in hand, Ben found his mouth running away with him.

"Whatever it is, I hope it turns out okay." He received a strange look in return. _Oh well_, Ben internally shrugged, as _long as I'm out on a limb_… "Good luck, Alex!"

All he got in return was the finger and a slammed door.

** . . . . **

**Author's Note:** Oh look, it's me! Sorry I've been gone so long. All my excuses are bad. This thing had been sitting on my drive awhile and I thought you all deserved it.

Also, I started a Tumblog recently. Follow me if you want.

pingnova dot tumblr dot com

EDIT: Sorry! FFN messed up the formatting of the first post! Warn me if you see anything else strange.


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